


Running Up That Hill

by ivanattempts



Category: The LEGO Movie (2014)
Genre: Bad Business, Blood, Cannibalism, Eventual Smut, Graphic Description, M/M, Violence, coppernauts, questionable religious themes, sinner/guardian angel au, some gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanattempts/pseuds/ivanattempts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has come to an end, and he’s not being overdramatic for once. In an end of times scenario he helped to create, but failed to foresee, GCBC struggles to survive in a radioactive wasteland. In the aftermath of the nuclear fallout, the world fractured into three groups — the Sinners, those unworthy of immediate death and ascension, the Guardians, those poor feather-brained saps that got sent down to save them, and the Duplo, scavengers out to consume everything in their path. GCBC doesn’t care to be saved, or eaten, thanks — he just wants to find something to help him open that hopefully radiation-free can of…something he’d found in the last house he raided. People don’t always get what they want, though.</p><p>A Sinner/Guardian Angel!AU. Coppernauts-centric with more than a few mentions of Bad Business, and possible mentions of Construction Cop.</p><p>[LEGO Movie Flashbang Submission]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

These buildings used to make him feel so small; how miniscule he’d felt when he’d first stepped foot in the -- _Hiya son. How’s it goin’ in the_ \-- big city, nothing but a suitcase in hand, and hopes as high as those skyscrapers for the future. The transfer had been a blessing and a curse, rolled into one. On the one hand, he’d learned so much about the world.

On the other, _he’d learned so much about the world_.

In a funny way, Business had been right. It’s weird, coming to that conclusion, but what other conclusion is there to come to? He’s not excusing their own roles in what happened, only acknowledging that maybe keeping the Master Builders down hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all. That Business might have been _right_ to do what he’d done was unthinkable, unfathomable -- but so was _this_.

The ash has long since settled, but it stains his boots; whether the material cracking beneath the worn leather soles is glass or bone, he doesn’t stop to consider. Tells himself the former, inwardly assumes the latter. Reaches up -- adjusts the cloth covering everything from the bottom rim of his shades to the neck of his jacket, makes sure it covers as much of his skin as it can; early morning, but it’s sweltering already, the thinned atmosphere making poor shelter from the sun, bearing down on them, drying the city to dust, to sand that’s whipped up with every hot breeze tickling the sweat on his skin, teasing.

The small bag on his back is far from full; his knife’s at his hip, ready to be drawn, his gun -- down to three bullets -- is on the opposite hip, and the bag? It’s got a can in it; just the one, and a canteen. But even that small haul is enough to have him on edge, walking with head bowed, but eyes up, and more importantly, _listening_.

The Duplo had arrived in the wake of Business’s downfall -- they had crashed into the scene, as if the crumbling government was what had drawn them there. Creatures of chaos that not only seemed to thrive in the existence of it, but endeavored to create more, and they’d succeeded. Worming their way in with Business, trying to regain his power -- and with the Master Builders, playing each off against the other, until the world was fractured, broken pieces that could no longer form a cohesive whole. Business, and those who stood with him, the citizens, the Master Builders who wanted to protect the citizens, the Master Builders who wanted revenge, and the Duplo, out for bloodshed alone.

They’d gotten it.

Like cockroaches, they’d survived everything that ravaged the planet; and come scurrying out to scavenge what was left. That’s what has him freezing when he hears something -- just a shuffle, a quiet sound that could be anyone, anything, except it can’t, and it isn’t, and if there’s one, there’s more. The Duplo never, _never_ travel alone.

His heart’s in his throat, but he doesn’t stop moving; doesn’t want them to know that _he_ knows. One step, two steps, and the cloth over his mouth is suddenly too close, and it’s smothering, the air coming through just a rehash of the air that’s already circulated, and there’s no oxygen left, he’s dizzy from it -- but no, that’s the panic, that’s the sweat on the back of his neck gone cold despite the heat, and his eyes flick this way and that behind the mirrored lenses protecting them.

That’s when he spots the feathers.

He once spent a week with his grandparents on a farm they’d owned since _they_ were children; a dog had gotten hold of one of the chickens while he was there, and he had walked from the house, taking the steps carefully, following the trail of feathers, scattered here and there. They’d been everywhere, a chaotic flurry of white on the ground, littering the ground beneath his small feet as he’d toddled along, rounding the corner of the house. The dog was long gone -- the mangled body of the chicken, however, had remained, and he, in all his boyish curiosity, had approached, had stared down at the pitiful mess left behind. Ribs jutting out, one leg missing, head mauled beyond recognition, innards eaten out, bits of muscle clinging to the broken, remaining leg. Wings splayed in an absent parody of flight, torn to shreds, bloodied.

Danny has little doubt that, if he were to follow the uneven trail, he’d find something similar at the end -- only the body lying there would not be that of a _chicken_ , because those feathers are much too large for any common _bird_.

He gives one hasty glance to his wrist, peeling the clothing back just enough to see the bare skin, and hastens on his way while the gathering Duplo are preoccupied. He doesn’t want to be around when they strip that body down to just a pair of mangled wings, and if it’s a sin to turn a blind eye and save his own hide, well, it’s not as if he’s not already soaked in the stuff.

It’s an hour later that he makes it back to their hideout _du jour_ , a fifth floor apartment in a mostly hollowed out building. Creaky floors and staircases, elevators that have long since stopped working, doors busted off most of their hinges -- it doesn’t scream _safe_ , but he picked it for all of those reasons. Any rustle in the night is enough to wake him, and their chosen apartment has a door still intact, and a deadbolt too. Anyone trying to get in will cause enough noise to wake the dead, and he’ll be up and ready for them by the time they get through the door.

The figure huddled in the corner is still, too still, and he frowns as he eases the door open -- _unlocked, careless_. For a moment, he doesn’t approach, merely watches, watches, because he can never be too careful; he cases the place from the doorway, looks at the papers scattered on the floor, each headline clearly visible.

_Bricksburg Building Debacle!_

_City In Chaos!_

_Catastrophe --_

He steps on the block letters, hiding them from view, and listens to the satisfying crinkle of the paper beneath his boot. He’d laid them out so careless footsteps would disturb them, and they remain exactly as he left them. This encourages him and he closes and locks the door behind him. He leans in the doorway, watches the huddled figure until he can catch the subtle rise and fall of their breaths, and lets out a little sigh of his own. The bag is carefully removed from his shoulder, sat on the floor so as to not startle the figure, and then he’s moving over; his touch his gentle, just a hand on the arm, but that doesn’t stop the other from jerking away, sitting up abruptly, wild-eyed, terrified.

”Easy now. ‘s just me.”

It takes a moment -- a little longer every day, he thinks -- before recognition dawns and the features soften some. Not a lot, but some, and it’s really all he can ask for. Eyes dart around, taking him in, and then he’s leaning, looking, searching for something, and Danny sighs again. He seems to be doing that a lot, lately.

”Food? Is that what y’re wantin’?”

It’s not as if he was expecting a ‘hello’, or a ‘welcome back’ -- Business hadn’t been the type to really do as much even when he’d been in his right mind, and now? Well, now Danny was lucky if he could get anything coherent out of him whatsoever. He mumbled from time to time, as he was doing now, but little more. He perked at the mention of food, and he just had to take that to mean that he’d hit the nail on the head.

What he needs to do is ration it out -- just enough to curb the hunger now, just enough for later; make it last as long as he possibly can, but somehow, he knows that’s not going to work. Peering into the bag, he looks down at the one can, and withdraws it, then closes it back tightly and shoves the bag elsewhere. There’s something mildly quizzical in Business’s expression, and he shrugs it off.

”Ate while I was out. This one’s yours.”

It’s a blatant lie, but Business doesn’t seem too intent on calling him on it -- Danny’s not even sure if he’s _there_ enough to realize how ridiculous the statement is; as if Danny would risk sitting around outside to have a little picnic in the middle of the irradiated wasteland they live in. As if he would risk _becoming_ a snack, instead of just having one.

Business couldn’t care less about any of those things, though -- he’s only got eyes for the can in Danny’s hands, and even makes a half-hearted grab at it, as if he’s planning to simply gnaw through the tin. A quick snatch back prevents that fiasco, and Danny pulls the knife from his belt, shaking his head.

”I got t’open it first. Y’know that.”

It’s like talking to badly behaved child, or a dog. Simple statements, simple reminders. Don’t be too harsh. Patience is key. He doesn’t understand anymore, he can’t understand anymore. Danny eases away so the knife isn’t too close to Business, turns his back to the other, tolerates the distressed sounds that come with the action, and stabs into the can; it takes a little while, working the blade into it, working it around, peeling the sharp metal back.

Congealed...beans? Eugh. Not exactly gourmet, but it’ll have to do. He hands it over, fishes out the spoon they picked up two weeks back and offers it up -- Business snatches both items greedily and digs in without regard for how disgusting the food looks, without regard for savoring it; then again, in this case, dwelling too long on what he’s actually eating might not be the best course of action. Danny ignores the way his own stomach protests at the smell of the food, at war with itself -- the instinctual need to eat, to survive, and the off-putting scent and look of the food. He turns away, ignores the sloppy sounds of Business devouring the can’s contents, and licks the sauce from his knife. It makes his stomach lurch, makes the hunger pains more intense, his body expecting sustenance after the flavor -- it doesn’t come, but he’s well-used to the sound of his stomach growling by now.

A sharp yelp behind him has his entire body tensing, and he turns, knife gripped tightly in his left hand; he’s prepared to defend himself and Business, and the first thing his eyes land on is _blood, blood, there’s blood everywhere and people are screaming, and there’s nothing he can do_ \-- 

\-- blood, just a small line of it across Business’s palm, and Business is staring at the redness of it, stricken, confused, as if he can’t figure out how it got there. Judging from the crescent shape of the cut, and the sauce on his fingers, though, Danny thinks he has a pretty good idea. Pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the impending headache, he allows himself an entirely self-indulgent grimace before grabbing a cloth from his pack; it’s not the cleanest thing in the world, but there’s very little of anything that’s really _clean_ anymore, unless he risks raiding a hospital for something sterile. Last time he tried that, he almost took a bullet to the shoulder.

”I’ve told y’t’be careful with th’cans. They’re sharp. _Sharp_. Don’t y’understand?”

He doesn’t. Danny knows he doesn’t, but it’s hard to keep the frustration from his tone; he wipes at the cut gently, forces himself not to be rough, even though he knows, were the roles reversed, Business would never offer him the same courtesy. Then again, were the roles reversed, he’s pretty sure they both would have died a long time ago, and it never would have come down to cut palms and worrying about infections.

Field medicine’s not his specialty, but he knows more than a bit of it -- he’d gotten hurt enough back when he was running down Master Builders to know how to stitch himself back together with even a half-decent first aid kit; the problem is that they don’t have any of those just lying around. He’s already checked the bathroom here; alcohol and gauze was their fare, and he guesses it’s just a good thing that Business won’t be needing stitches.

”Stay here. Don’t touch th’can.”

Oh, who is he kidding. He can’t trust him with that. Instead, he takes the can and ignores the protesting whine Business lets out, low and petulant.

”Y’ll get it back, just. Just bloody sit there a minute.”

It takes half a minute for him to trek through the apartment, retrieve the kit, and make his way back, and it’s long enough, apparently, for Business to get bored and start prodding at the open cut. Danny drops the kit on the couch and slaps the man’s probing fingers away.

”Stop that! Y’want t’infect it and make me cut it off? Y’understand that? _Amputate_?”

He sets the beans to the side, snatches his knife out and grabs Business’s wrist, pantomiming chopping at it -- something about the motion is oddly relieving, soothing, but it sends Business into a panic, trying to snatch his hand away, grunting in fear, staring at him in undisguised terror.

For a moment, Danny doesn’t stop. Even lets his blade graze the other’s skin -- just hard enough to split skin, not hard enough to bleed.

Business finally struggles free after that and flees to the opposite end of the couch, clutching at the wounded arm defensively, and watching Danny warily -- it takes a moment for him to come back to himself, to look at the knife in his hand, and swear softly, tossing it onto the floor beside the couch; the solid _thunk_ of it hitting is enough to make Business flinch, and Danny winces as well, shaking his head and approaching carefully, palms out and open.

”No...No, sorry. I didn’t mean t’scare you. I’m just worried. C’mere. Let me fix y’r hand.”

There’s a long moment of hesitation, his eyes flicking between Danny and his injuries -- as if he’s trying to piece the sentence together, trying to determine whether the strange combination of sounds means more harm, or help.

At length, he unfurls, scoots nearer and offers up the tender flesh, frowning softly.

”...fix?”

His voice is a low rasp, cracking from disuse, but the sound of it is enough to melt Danny -- he softens immediately, feels his heart drop, feels the burn at the edge of his eyes that means he’s one wrong move from crying. His throat tightens. How long has it been since he’s heard another human voice that wasn’t crying out in some sort of agony?

”Yeah, buddy. I’m goin’ t’fix it.”

He offers a smile, and gets a tremulous one in return; that smile disappears the moment the alcohol is opened, though, because it _stings_ , and he’s hissing, trying to jerk his hand back from the pain, as if that will help. Danny shakes his head, gestures for him to give it back, holds the bottle up.

”It’s t’help fix it. It cleans it. Fix. Give y’r hand back.”

There’s an unspoken _please_ tacked onto the end of it; he hasn’t got the patience for this, he’s too exhausted, too hungry, too frustrated and angry and hurt to baby sit a grown man who’s lost his marbles. It takes a few more repetitions -- _fix, fix, fix_ \-- before Business trusts him again, and then there’s more alcohol. Danny doesn’t give him the luxury of snatching back, this time; just bandages his hand as best he can with the gauze, ties it off in a knot, and lets him go.

Flopping onto the couch, himself, he grabs the can, gestures Business close again -- the other nestles under his left arm, just has to make himself as much of a nuisance as possible, and Danny resituates so he can hold the can in his left hand, and utilize the spoon in his right. It’s a bit chaotic at first, but soon they have a system, and Danny is scraping the bottom of the can, _put-put-putting_ out airplane noises. That’s more for his own mental health, than for Business’s; he’s not sure Business much cares what noises he makes, as long as he doesn’t stop feeding him.

Soon -- too soon -- the can is empty, and Business is peering into it, as if hoping for more. This time, at least, he doesn’t seem distraught when Danny apologizes about that being all there is; he likes to think it’s because he’s coming to understand. It’s more likely that he just got enough to stop the ache in his stomach for now, and isn’t as inclined to throw a tantrum. Business presses closer, leans his head on his shoulder, and relaxes there, and before Danny has so much as time to put the empty can on the floor, the other is asleep.

It’d be so much easier to just slit his throat. Pale and vulnerable, it’d be better -- what sort of life is this? What sort of existence, curled up, dirty, afraid? Living off whatever cans they can find, hoping they’re not chock full of radiation, but no way of knowing -- Russian Roulette dinners. One of these days, they’re going to run out of empty chambers.

Subtly, Danny grabs Business’s hand, turns it in his so the wrist is exposed -- blank, still blank. Nothing there but the pale red line from his own careless knife usage. He brushes a thumb across it and sighs slightly -- it takes him three breaths to realize that Business is looking at him from under hooded lids, obviously not as asleep as he’d thought.

Shame swoops in, settles around his shoulders and makes them drop. He curls his arm a bit tighter around the other, presses a hasty kiss to his forehead.

”I wouldn’t hurt you, y’know that? Not ever.”

Business doesn’t respond, and Danny doesn’t expect him to. He shifts, though, and after a moment he’s cradling his injured hand, brushing his thumb along the same line Danny had been a moment before -- and then he looks up at him, expectant.

”...I know. I know it’s still blank, but y’ve just got t’be patient. Y’rs’ll show up.”

There’s skepticism in Business’s expression -- or...no, maybe he’s just projecting his own feelings onto the other. Business, for his part, appears to be neutral on the matter, interested, but not overly concerned. That thumb is still going though, a lazy drag that seems almost absent, and Danny takes that as a cue to continue.

”I bet y’r Guardian’ll show up tomorrow.”

He wishes he sounded more confident.

”Flurry of feathers, burst of light, all that.”

He’s not sure if that’s how it happens at all -- he’s never been around to see one descend. He knows what they look like, though; they stick out like sore thumbs, all wide-eyed childish naivety, walking on broken glass with bare feet, delivered in gauzy white wrappings that stand out against the ash and soot, the broken buildings, the orange sky. In short, they look bloody ridiculous, and they make prime targets for anyone less concerned with ascending.

It’s funny -- in all the end of times scenarios he’d heard about, he’d never taken the _angels coming to earth_ bits literally, but it just goes to show what he knows. Guardian angels. Guardians. Sometimes, he honestly wonders if it’s a case of mass hysteria -- the collective desires of all the remaining survivors for some sort of escape from this hell. He doesn’t know. He’s never gotten close enough to one to see; but judging how many times he’s seen them crumpled, bleeding, ripped to shreds, heard them screaming...well, they seem pretty real to him.

They go through this every other night or so; Business will touch his wrists, and Danny will assure him _tomorrow, just y’wait, y’r Guardian’ll be here tomorrow_ , but they never do show up. Is Business even on the list? That’s the word going around -- everyone gets a Guardian. Everyone gets saved. Prove themselves to be good people by caring for the Guardians, protecting them -- the Guardians, in turn, remove the Sin that weighs them down.

That’s another funny thing -- _Sin_. He’s certain it wasn’t visible before, but now it is, just barely; a shadow that hovers around them like an aura, and if he crosses his eyes it comes more into focus. It radiates off of Business like a living thing; he’s never bothered trying to look for his own. Doesn’t want to know, really. Figures if his Guardian flinches away at the sight of him, he’ll know then, and not a moment before.

His eyes flicker down to Business, but the other seems properly asleep this time -- which is unfortunate, given how uncomfortable this position is. It takes him some time to shift around to get the other moved without jostling him away, until he can lay on the couch, Business curled against his side, but mostly atop him, sprawled on his chest, head tucked under his chin. The weight is...a comfortable one, and it helps him to relax, oddly enough, and before long, he’s drifting off alongside him.

Danny doesn’t dream. This isn’t uncommon, and he’s thankful for it -- when the dreams come, they’re normally nightmarish, have him jerking awake in a cold sweat, reaching for the nearest weapon he can get his hands on. Usually his knife -- gun’s too loud, even in his half-asleep state he always recognizes that.

So, when the grey light of morning filters in through the cracks in the papers they’ve taped up against the windows, he wakes slowly, cold, alone.

_Alone?_

Starting to his feet, he looks around; nothing’s disturbed except -- except his bag, the mouth of it open, zippers carelessly left drawn down.

Something’s _wrong_. His stomach twists, his guts knot -- something is _wrong_ , very _wrong_. Maybe he’s not dreamless. Maybe this is a nightmare.

The floor squeaks under his boots. The papers rustle, quiet as a sigh -- loud as a gunshot in the still of the apartment.

He sees the shadow before he sees the figure, and he lets out a breath of relief, rounding into the doorway.

”Don’t go runnin’ off like that, y’know I -- “

He falls silent when he spots the gun in Business’s hand, holds out his own hand.

”Now what’re y’doin’ with that? Give it here. It’s not a toy.”

Business is staring at it, quiet, contemplative, turning it over in his hands as if he’s never seen such a contraption in the entirety of his life. His fingers curve around the grip, one slips around the trigger. Danny takes a careful step forward, only to find himself staring down the barrel of his own gun; his eyes flick up, and Business is...surprisingly calm looking, which unnerves him more than the wild-eyed look he normally retains.

”Don’t.”

It’s Business speaking, one calm word, and it’s enough to make Danny hesitate for one full second -- long enough for Business to jerk the gun towards himself, slot it between his teeth, tilt up, and _fire_.

His ears ring in the sudden silence that follows, so loud that it drowns out the sound of Business crumpling to the floor, falling into a haphazard heap. For a long moment, Danny can’t do anything but stare.

Blood. There’s blood on the wall now, spattered, littered with bits of brain matter, skull, hair. Dribbling down, streaking down the peeling yellow paint, a dark contrast to the pastel remnants. There’s blood pooling beneath him.

Some part of him doesn’t believe what’s just happened. He approaches slowly, kneels down. Business’s eyes have gone glossy, wide, absent -- empty. His fingers touch his face, touch his lips, the broken shapes of his teeth from the kick of the gun; they slip further, his brows creasing as they find the still warm, ragged hole in the roof of his soft palate.

His first instinct is to kiss him.

The thought strikes him, as well as the realization of what’s just happened, and he jerks his fingers back, scrambles away from Business’s prone body. He wipes the blood from his fingers with hasty, jerky motions, watches the other’s figure flop limply to the side, exposing the bloody mess that is what remains of the back of his head, all matted hair and grey matter, and Danny has to turn away, dry heaves until the bitter burn of stomach acid drips from his mouth onto the floor in a small, clear pool beneath him.

Precious minutes are wasted recovering, eyes on the floor, body shaking, and there’s the heavy, metal smell of blood, a thick, cloying scent that’s in his lungs, in his mouth, and he might throw up again, if there was anything to throw up to begin with. Instead, he takes a steadying breath, and chances another look at his body.

There are tears stinging his eyes, blurring the scene, and maybe that’s the only reason he’s able to approach, able to bring himself to crawl over, to turn Business over. He doesn’t meet his eyes, only pulls the gun from his lax fingers, shoves it into the holster at his waist. It dawns on him, then, that Business had to have removed it from his person -- that the bag had been a distraction, something to slow him down. He wasn’t meant to see this. He wasn’t supposed to interfere.

”Y’damn selfish _brat_. That’s all y’ve ever been. Don’t know why I expected anything different.”

But his throat’s thick, and the words crack and break. He can’t stay here. He can’t even clean up the mess, can’t clean up the -- the body. Can’t bury him. Now he’s gone and fired the gun, everyone even remotely nearby will have heard it, and will be coming to _scavenge_. He stumbles to his feet, moves from the room -- grabs his bag, shoves the alcohol and the remaining gauze into it, shoves his knife back at his belt, shoulders the bag, and with one last look at the couch they’d slept on, one brief glance at the yellow room, Danny undid the lock, and bolted from the apartment.

He ran. He ran, and ran, and ran -- down the hall, out the door, down the fire escape, onto the street below, ran, and ran until his chest was heaving and his heart was hammering, and all he could taste in his mouth was _dust_ instead of blood and bile. Ran until something else in him stirred, anxious, worried.

Daniel doesn’t have to say anything to get Danny to slow down -- he just _does_ , slows to a walk, but doesn’t stop, because if he stops, he’ll fall flat, and chances are he’ll never get up again.

_It’s goin’ t’be okay._

”He just -- he just. He just, he just -- “

_It’s over._

”And I -- “

_Shhh._

Danny swallows, hard, but it’s dry, and not nearly as satisfying as he’d like. He draws the cloth around his throat up over his mouth and nose, because the sun will be out in full force, soon, and he doesn’t want to risk the burns. Daniel doesn’t speak again, and Danny finds himself wondering, not for the first time, if it’s not Daniel speaking to him at all. If he’s really still _gone_ , and it’s just the guilt, the fear of being _alone_. Daniel was always there -- and then he _wasn’t_.

_Shhh._

The sound comes again, and Danny latches onto it, huffs out warm, heavy breaths, stifles a sob.

”Don’t go.”

_I won’t._

”Y’re lyin’.”

No answer immediately comes, and Danny chokes out another sob. There’s a rock to his right and he detours, picks it up, and throws it as hard as he can, shatters the window of a building and slams his back hard against the crumbling wall he’d stolen the block from. He brings his hands up, snatches his shades off and wipes at his face, mops up the sweat and tears.

For half a breath, he waits for Emmet’s face to appear beyond the broken pane; when things first started spiraling down, they’d all banded together, and despite the fact that everything was already beyond broken, Emmet would complain if they started breaking things, themselves. Like it mattered, like it was important that they remained civil after the fall of civilization as they knew it. Something about that attitude had been...comforting. The normalcy that it had provided, that Emmet had provided was…

Gone. It was gone, like Emmet -- gone like Business. Gone like every other member of their haphazard group, picked off or vanished, one at a time. Lost in hasty escapes, lost in last-ditch efforts to get out of tight spots, lost to the Duplo, lost to traps -- _lost_. Gone. And now -- and now it’s just him. Just him.

Danny checks his wrist out of habit, and the skin’s still pale, still blank, except for a few flecks of -- of blood, which he hastily wipes away, swallowing back the bile that threatens to rise up again.

_Just me._

The weight hits him then, the exhaustion -- this constant running around, fighting, clawing out a way to survive, to just keep living, and...and for what? Why? For the vague hope that some mystical being is going to descend and wipe the slate clean? For the hope of being _forgiven_? For the hope -- for the hope that things might get _better_? He can’t. He can’t anymore. He can’t keep running, can’t keep fighting, can’t keep hiding from the shadows he sees around every corner, can’t keep pretending he’s not cracking too.

The sun’s still high, and he should seek out cover, but he can’t take another step, can’t, because the street stretching on in front of him is broken and dry and _empty_ , and for once, for once he finds himself completely without the motivation to pursue it.

Danny looks at the window he’d broken, takes the four stumbling steps across the street, and pushes the door open. The room’s empty and not at all secure, no door, no proper debris to alert him of intruders, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t _care_ , just curls up in the corner, away from the light spilling in from the shattered window, and tries to go back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

”What are you doing lazing about?”

Danny frowns -- he’s dozed off at his desk somehow, right on a stack of papers. It’s not so uncommon. His job’s a hard one, and sleep isn’t always a luxury he affords himself. But still, so blatantly sleeping at his desk? It isn’t like him. He sits up, straightens himself out; his vision’s a bit blurred from sleep, so he rubs at his eyes. Business is standing there, the outline of him fuzzy as he tries to blink and regain himself, but he doesn’t get a chance; there’s a hand on his arm, guiding him to his feet, dragging him in the direction of Business’s office. It must be important if he came here to get him himself. There’s a reluctance in the back of his mind, something telling him not to go, but he doesn’t have much say -- what Business wants, Business gets. It’s always been that way.

_Stop this._

_Stop what? I can’t, G, y’know that._

_This time, y’can._

_What d’y’mean?_

His boots scuff along the hallway, and Business’s hand is insistent at his wrist. He glances at the connection, at the bare skin beneath those fingers, and isn’t sure why.

_Look again._

_Why?_

He doesn’t look, because they’re in Business’s office -- how did that happen so quickly? He’d missed waving at Velma, snapping her a smart salute as he ordinarily does, and the thought that she might have seen him being dragged about by his wrist like an unruly child has his cheeks burning in shame. This is humiliating. His lower back digs into the edge of Business’s desk as he’s pushed against it, and something about this is wrong, it’s all _wrong_ , and he can’t place why -- just accepts the hands working at him, pulling his shirt free of his trousers and pushing under it, under the t-shirt beneath that, against skin, and his hands are cold and it makes Danny shudder.

There’s a warm, warm mouth trailing along his jaw, and he sighs, tips his head back, bares his throat -- Business follows the line of it with open kisses, and Danny feels his shirt come free, feels the t-shirt under the button-up slide with the progression of Business’s hands, pushing it up; it’s caught on his thumbs, and the free fingers are clever, stroking, infinitely patient. This encounter is...gentler than normal, and Danny doesn’t understand, but isn’t complaining, because it’s...nice, honestly, it’s wonderful, it’s _perfect_. Business handles him like a fragile thing -- no, that’s wrong. Not fragile; _precious_. He touches him as if he is not delicate, but is _meaningful_ , something to be handled with care. He is _valuable_ to Business, in this moment, and he softens perceptibly, his own hands coming up to touch, touch, touch.

”I love you.”

It’s Danny speaking, and he doesn’t have a reason, just says it again, and again, clinging to the other, fingers sliding up along the nape of Business’s neck, pulling him in, closer, closer, closer.

”I love you.”

He can’t tell him enough, because it’s true, it rattles through the empty, broken parts of him, echoes in the sections of him that still remember what it is to love. He wants to tell him until the words break through, wants to tell him now much this moment of tenderness means to him, and he draws him in for a kiss, deep and searching, searching for the words that he’s spilling from his own mouth, searching for the answer he wants, and will never get.

Business tastes like cheap mints, but there’s something beneath that, something smokey, like -- like gunpowder, a sharp metallic tang that he can’t immediately place. His hands stroke up through Business’s hair, along the back of his head, into the thick curls, and he probes with his tongue, and tastes...and tastes _blood_.

It doesn’t immediately register, only causes a faint line of confusion to appear between his brows -- and then he feels it, the tattered hole in the soft palate, the entry wound of the bullet that had torn through him when…

Danny releases him, stumbles back, hand moving to his mouth, and there’s blood on his tongue, bits of flesh clinging where he’d probed the uneven entrance. He’s dizzy, feels like he’s suffocating, and Business is just standing there, staring, staring, but there’s no light in his eyes, he’s just an upright corpse, and Danny’s on his knees, looking at his wrist, and doesn’t know _why_.


End file.
